Eyes Like Zydrate
by ChasetheMorning22
Summary: Graverobber is simply doing his thing - selling Zydrate to addicts, when suddenly he meets a new customer, and his world shifts. Fluff, sex, drug use, some eventual ass kicking.
1. The Alley

Graverobber held the vial of luminous blue liquid in his hand, watching the substance swOim back and forth in its container as he rocked it from side to side in his palm. He longed for the simpler times in his life, before he had become a Zydrate dealer, when he was loved and gave love in return. Despite his hardened exterior, Graves knew he craved what every human wanted – affection, touch, and a deeper connection than just sex with another human. Unfortunately, his "career" hardly allowed for such frivolousness. In this city, it was pretty much kill or be killed. He definitely did not want to be on the "killed" end of things, especially not with Amber Sweet being one of his top customers. She could sic her henchmen on him faster than a Z-Addict would be on top of someone holding a "Free Zydrate!" sign.

Graves pocketed the vial after a few moments, shuddering at the thought of Amber coming after him. Luckily for him, she was usually too lazy to ncome to his dumpster herself. Of course, there were those rare times where she was jonesing so badly she needed to come to him personally. In those cases, Graves wanted to shrink into the ground and never resurface, although he never showed it. He had more pride than he would ever really let on.

The click of boots on the asphalt caused Graverobber to look up from his hand. He hoped it wasn't a customer. He wasn't particularly fixed on the idea of customer service tonight.

"Graves?" a light, nervous female voice asked. Her body was concealed in the shadows. She didn't sound familiar to him that was for sure.

"Yes. . . ?" Graverobber leaned forward slightly, attempting to capture her in his view. Finally, after a few hesitant seconds, the woman emerged from the darkness. She was extremely short – probably 5'5" to his 6. Her face was hidden behind a mane of wavy brown hair with red streaks. She wore the typical attire of one who was somewhere around lower-middle class – a red tank top with a long sleeved, off the shoulder shirt underneath, a short, a ripped black skirt, and red fishnets covering her legs. Knee high black boots and several pieces of silver jewelry finished off the outfit. She brushed her hair away from her face, revealing an eyebrow piercing above oddly colored blue eyes, reminding him of the vial in his pocket. Her face was beautiful besides the fatigue on her features. This was a deep pain, a heavy world-weariness which sank to the bone. Graves was all too familiar with that expression.

"What's your name. .?" Graverobber asked. Apparently his mood had changed. He usually didn't bother to ask if they'd done anything during the day, let alone their names. Being a drug dealer didn't call for interpersonal relationships, after all.

"Trisha. Trish. . whatever." The girl shrugged her shoulders, crossing her arms in front of her chest nervously. Graves smiled lightly at her, despite her aloof attitude. He knew a defense mechanism when he saw one.

"I don't bite. Not unless you like that type of thing."

Trish looked at him rather blandly, and then glanced around the alley. She was not in a joking mood. It was only the two of them in the brick and mortar stretch of darkness. Graves shrugged after a moment, leaning against the back wall to observe the girl in front of him. She had to be no older than 18. Although, due to her expression, she definitely looked (and probably was) older in spirit. Trisha was oddly cute, in a pixie like way, he thought . Graverobber could have smacked himself at that point – customers were _not_ for fucking unless they had no money and were badly jonesing.

"What can I do for you this evening, Trish?" He continued leaning against the cold brick wall, the freezing stone soaking through the back of his ever loyal coat.

"I need Z for someone. And they don't have any money. . ." Trish said quietly, fingering the largest necklace hanging from around her neck. Graves managed a look at the pendant, which glittered in the light of the street lamp above them. It was a Victorian style butterfly made from silver and encrusted with what appeared to be pearls and diamonds. Risky business, wearing something that beautiful and obviously worth money around a town like this. Trish, apparently, had no idea where she was living.

"Okay. Who's this friend? Maybe I can go get them to get the Z themselves instead of sending you to grab it for them." He felt horrible for this younger girl having to do a drug deal for some punk who probably wouldn't give her the light of day after she scored for them. This was definitely not normal for him.

"I can't say," Trish snapped. Graves looked at her, slightly taken aback, but said nothing. He made a mental note never to ask about "friends" again.

"Okay then." Graves picked at one of his gloves, musing over the worn leather. "And you don't have the money for the Z either, I'm guessing." Trish shook her head slowly. She yanked at her shirt now, agitated.

"Right. I normally have a price if someone doesn't have money. . ." He opened his mouth in shock as Trish immediately went to her knees in front of him and began working on his belt. She was experienced at this. No one else would have done what she just did. "WHOA, kid, hold it!" Graves sidled off to the left, buckling his belt shut again. "I'm not going to make you pay."

"Why?" Trish's expression held nothing but suspicion. She stood quickly, pulling at her shirt again, a nervous habit.

"Just know you won't be paying me tonight." Graves reached into his pocket, producing one of the many vials of Zydrate he carried around with him. He handed the drug over to Trish, who continued to look suspicious of him.

"Thank you," she replied slowly, unsurely.

"My pleasure." He smiled softly still. The girl turned from him now, sliding the vial into her skirt pocket. She began to walk away, her boots clicking on the asphalt yet again. Graves shook his head. She was experienced and yet so naïve when it came to certain things, it seemed. The corner of his lips stayed perked up as Trish's shadow looked over her shoulder at him. He watched her hesitate at the opening of the alley, then turn left and leave.

Graves knew he would be seeing Trish again, probably a lot sooner than either of them would like. Of course, this is how Zydrate worked. One shot and you were hooked. He only hoped he hadn't made a dire mistake giving this somewhat innocent girl a hit of the Devil himself.


	2. Meeting Again

Graves rolled over in his dumpster, the warmth from the blankets he'd hocked into the bottom of it becoming a bit much on his right side. One day, he thought, he might try getting a real place to loiter around and in, one where it wasn't so easy to hunt him down for a fix. Every scalpel slut and Zydrate addict for at least a mile around knew where he resided. This wasn't an easy thing to deal with when you were attempting to sleep and some dope sick junkie started banging on the lid of the dumpster waking you up. Luckily for them, Graves was rather laid back in attitude.

He stared at the lid above him, wondering if he should go out tonight. There were graves to rob, after all. He was running low on his supply. Money wouldn't make itself. Graves sighed heavily, continuing to stare at the dumpster lid. There was no alternative – he would have to go out and rummage around for Zydrate, even if the thought wasn't appealing to him today.

He stood up, pushing the lid open as he went. He glanced around. There was no one around in sight; good, very good. Graves grinned to himself then disappeared into the depths of the trash can for a moment. He emerged once again, this time with a book in hand. Not many people knew what Graverobber did during the day while he wasn't pillaging the dead. He prided himself on being able to keep his mind open and active, despite his questionable profession.

Graves sat down against the cool brick wall, opening the book up to the first page. He wasn't particularly fond of Charles Dickens, but this was one of the only books he could get his hands on. He sat for a while, reading against the noise of the busy city. The honks of car horns, yells and chattering of people and, as always, the blare of GeneCo propaganda provided his soundtrack. Immersed in his book, Graves did not realize there was someone approaching – and in daylight of all times.

"Hey." A shiny black boot thrust itself between Graves face and the book in his hands. His eyes traveled upward slowly. Without further questioning, he closed the novel and dropped it back into the dumpster.

"What is it?" he inquired of the woman in front of him. She smiled devilishly, sweeping a blonde lock out of her face.

"I need a hit."

"Amber, I can't."

"Why not?" Amber Sweet's voice rose about an octave higher, becoming even more demanding than was normal. This was because she wasn't getting what she wanted. Graves knew there would be trouble if she couldn't acquire what she desired.

"I'm out. I'm going to get more tonight." Amber's face contorted into a pouty, angry mess.

"But I have an appointment in a couple of hours. Come on!" She growled the last words, grabbing him by the jacket and pulling him up. This was a shocking feat for a girl who appeared thin enough to snap in a breeze, but Graverobber showed no surprise in the least. Amber could be extremely physical and persuasive when the time called for it.

"What don't you understand? I. Don't. Have. Any." He roughly pushed by the shoulders. Amber stumbled back, nearly falling with her heels. She steadied herself and glared at him darkly. Graverobber crossed his arms in front of his chest, narrowing his eyes back at her. "There's nothing I can do."

"How about . . . you go get some?" She smiled seductively at him now.

'What a manipulative bitch. . .' Graves thought, watching her walk closer to him. Amber stood in front of him, continuing to smile. He kept his feet firmly planted on the concrete.

"I can make it worth your while, Graves. You know that." She reached out a hand to push his head up and lick his neck. Graverobber withstood her tongue on his skin for a mere moment before grabbing her shoulder with lightning speed and forcing her back again.

"Usually I'd be okay with that, dear Ms. Sweet." He kept the hand on her shoulder, holding her in her place. "But not today." Amber growled at him again, taking his hand and throwing it from her.

"Fine. But you'll be sorry." She kept her narrowed eyes on him for a moment before turning and stomping her way out of the alley. Graves watched her go with a relieved and slightly agitated expression on his face. She was gone for now, but he knew there would be some goons sent after him. Soon.

Ah, well. That was a problem for another day. He reached into the dumpster to pull out his book again. However, there was another distraction.

"Graves?" Graverobber dropped the book to the dumpster floor none too gently. He swiveled around to see Trisha in front of him, arms shyly behind her back. Her eyes were focused on the ground at the moment, allowing Graverobber the time he needed to assess the situation. She looked perfectly fine, besides appearing tired, like the other night. She was dressed in different clothing today – much simpler than before; a simple black t-shirt with wrist length lace gloves and black pants which were slightly baggy. Her hair was pulled back so that two strands fell into her eyes, and nothing else.

"Yeah?" he snapped uncharacteristically. Amber could equally anger and excite him, depending on what surgeries she'd had that week. Trisha looked at him, slightly abashed.

"I just . . . wanted to say thank you." She pushed her hands into her pockets, leaning her shoulder against the wall. Her eyes were completely on him now. They were so brightly blue, it was unnerving. Not only were they beautiful, they mirrored his own currently empty existence. This made him want to squirm.

"No problem, kid. It's just my job." Graverobber shrugged. He stood in front of the dumpster, looking back at her, nerves fraying inside of him. His anger at Amber was beginning to dissipate looking at her.

"No. Not that. You were so nice the other night. I'm used to people shoving my face in the crotch whenever they want something," she sighed. "But . . . not you." Trisha stayed exactly where she was, but her face conveyed genuine gratitude.

"Uh . . . sure. No problem." Graves was mentally shifting his weight in his head, now very uncomfortable with this situation. "What are you doing here, anyway? I'm out of Z."

"I – they don't want more. Not now, anyway," Trisha replied, quickly covering her tracks.

"Kid, it's fine. You're not the only one who's come to me and wanted a first thrill." Trisha blinked at him for a moment, not saying a word.

"I. . . I didn't want to admit it." Graverobber smiled at her exactly as he had the night she had come to him for Zydrate.

"No one wants to admit it, Trish. No one. Because once you admit it, you know you have problems." He sighed heavily. He wasn't about to tell her he thought he had made a huge mistake giving one so young such an addictive drug.

"I haven't felt so amazing in such a long time," Trisha told him quietly. "It didn't hurt anymore. I wasn't constantly playing the memories in my head. I didn't want to pick up a razorblade for once." She smiled at him. "You gave me a release." Graves cocked an eyebrow at her.

"I gave you hell. And now, you'll be wanting more." Trisha bit her red-painted lower lip. She didn't deny anything. He shook his head hopelessly, yanking his gloves off and dropping them in the dumpster. Trisha glanced at the black container, a look of pure disbelief on her features.

"You live here?" she asked.

"Yes."

"In a trash can?"

"It's a dumpster. A trash can's too small, even for a street rat like me."

"Oh. . ." She stared at him blankly.

"What?" he asked, leaning against the dumpster now.

"It's just . . . how do you deal with it in there? No food or anything."

"I have my ways." He smirked at her, eyes revealing mischief.

"Uh . . . huh. . ." Trisha replied slowly, her eyes roving from Graverobber to the dumpster and back again.

"Don't ask," Graves said flatly. He didn't feel like explaining his story to anyone, let alone a girl he just met who could be a potential addict.

"Will do." Trisha refocused on him, studying his profile. Graverobber finally rolled his eyes.

"Are you done here? I have things to do."

"Actually . . ." She sighed. She looked him up and down, then spoke. "Yeah. I am. I'll be seeing you soon, probably." She didn't appear to be done, not at all. Trisha was biting her lip, looking as though she wanted to say something else. However, she turned and started to walk away. Graves watched her go, yet again. Somehow, he didn't believe she was simply trying to thank him for giving her a moment of peace. Then he began to wonder what hell was going through her mind that she would have to resort to something like Zydrate in the first place. He shrugged to himself. It wasn't his problem.

After all, Graverobber had issues on the front which were bigger than Zydrate, scalpel sluts and addicts. They were the reasons he began to sell the devil of a drug in the first place.


	3. The Visit

**Note: Chapter contains fluff and kind of takes away some of the mystery of the Graverobber character, but adds to his development. Your choice if you want to continue. Thanks to everyone for reading!**

The night was cool against his face, a soft breeze blowing through the cemetery as he walked. Graverobber scanned the graves before him. The headstones stood around him like soldiers on watch, guarding their deceased wards. He smirked to himself, weaving in and out between the stones, the ground crunching beneath his heavy black boots. Graves thought there was a point in his life when he wasn't so sacrilegious and rude when it came to matters of religion and the dead. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember that particular phase.

"Which ones?" he whispered to himself, eyes flicking over the cold, empty stones. Finally, he settled on one in front of him, an above ground tomb, which was larger than the other graves but was not as massive as the mausoleums off to the sides. He usually chose these for their convenience, and for being less of a risk to him. Graves set to work, pushing the stone lid off of the top of the coffin with a grunt. The smell of decay hit him square in the face, but he hardly noticed. This job had numbed him to the sights and smells of death long ago.

He worked quickly so as not to be caught by the GeneCo guards monitoring the graveyards at night. All too soon, there was a plastic-wrapped body in his arms and a vacant stone coffin in front of him. He dropped the body on the ground and kneeled, pulling a massive needle from a special strap inside his coat. Graves shoved the needle into the decayed nostril of the corpse, the action slightly degrading. He pulled the plunger up. The familiar, glowing blue liquid surfaced, filling the vial in a matter of seconds. Graves pulled the vial from the needle and loaded another empty one in its place.

He didn't bother to replace the body. He needed the drug, not to be caught and shot. He smiled grimly at the prospect, continuing to go about his business. There were nights where he appreciated his job and the quick money the work could bring him. Then, there were nights like these where he wondered what in the world had pushed him into such a disgusting career. Of course, he knew the reason he kept at the Zydrate pushing. He simply found it hard to remember some times.

Minutes passed. Graves eventually finished his work, his stock of Zydrate replenished in the carrier under his jacket. He wiped his hands on his coat at the last grave, sighing quietly. The night was still dark, with no sign of the GeneCo guards around. Graverobber stood, glancing at the stones surrounding him. He remembered meeting a girl similar to Trisha in a graveyard once. The memory made him smile to himself as he trudged through the yard, toward the exit.

He missed Shiloh, of course. The girl was one of those people he had a rare connection with outside of the Zydrate business. There was an odd kind of chemistry he couldn't define that swam between them when they were together. Graves pondered to himself what had happened to her. After the mess at the Opera, she had disappeared altogether.

With quiet resignation, Graves walked down the vacant sidewalk. As he approached the city, the peaceful silence he had cherished in the graveyard began to fade away. Sanitarium's obnoxious, bright lights and raucous noise would have distracted any other resident of this slimy world. Graves, however, was able to slide his hands into his pockets easily and stroll through the city, eyes firmly set on his goal.

"Hey, baby. Want some company?" a woman in a severely tiny skirt asked. Graverobber gave her a disinterested once-over.

"No, thanks," he said abruptly, pushing his way past her.

'Ugh, hookers . . . just as bad as the scalpel sluts,' Graves mused as he continued to walk, altering his speed to be slightly faster now. He didn't want to be stopped again. Especially not with whom he was on his way to see.

Graves couldn't help but smile a bit sadly as he approached the street, though. The discomfort he felt when the hooker approached him disappeared as he slowed and turned the corner to head up the road. The street was lined with dim overhead lamps and ragged gardens. The neighborhood never did change, no matter how many times he roamed its streets. This was comforting and disheartening to him at the same time. He kept his pace slow and even, in no rush to his destination. He simply wanted to take in the sights. He was home.

Graverobber's eyes flicked back and forth from his side of the sidewalk to the other side of the street. They looked similar, although the houses were shabbier on the other side of the road. He glanced to the houses on his left, counting in his head. The one he was looking for was near the end of the road, one of the more secluded and honestly tranquil places he could find in this world. The house was barely disturbed by the city's noises or GeneCo propaganda.

He stopped in front of the wrought iron fence, facing away from the modest, Victorian style home, to breathe in a relaxing breath of air. The oxygen around here could hardly be called fresh, but it was better than nothing. Graves breathed in deeply a few more times. He could already feel his shoulders loosening considerably. Without any further hesitance, Graves turned and pushed the cold gate open. The metal creaked for much too long as he put pressure on it.

He shook his head disgustedly at the noise, closing the gate quickly behind him. That would need to be fixed. The house stood oddly cheerily in front of him despite the gloom of the city surrounding it. Graves' lips turned up into that same wistful smile he wore a few moments ago. He strode up to the house and shoved the door open, without even making an effort to knock.

Stillness filled the house, permeating Graves to his very bones. This wasn't unusual, though. He was definitely used to the uneasy silence that filled the place. He sighed again, this time in a weary, depressed fashion, as he spied the flowers on the table in the front entrance. They were curled and brown, crisp with wilted death. He wondered how long they had stood there completely furled as they were. Graverobber approached and pulled the flowers from their beautiful china vase. He looked down at the browned blooms in his hand before glancing at the stairs off to the right in front of him.

"Ah. . . I'll bring you some new ones," he said, walking to the kitchen to throw out the deceased flowers. The kitchen was not as gloomy as the living room and front entrance with their dim, gas-lamp lighting. In fact, the room was quite lighthearted. It was painted white, with a bench built into the wall to sit at the table. There was a standalone counter that hadn't been used in quite some time. Graves grinned as he remembered the events that went on here, a long, long time ago. Now, however, the stove was tarnished, as well as the sink and other fixtures. The lace curtains hanging by the windows over the sink were yellowed with age.

The smile turned downward on half of his face as he threw the flowers into the trash bin, then turned to head upstairs. There was no point in visiting the rest of the house. No one else resided here. Graves' knew she only spent time in her room and the library anyway, nowadays. If she could make it to the library, that was.

Graverobber glanced at the portraits and photos hanging on the walls as he quietly stepped down the hallway. The once-bright yellow wallpaper was peeling from the corners of the walls, he noticed. He looked away, guilt filling him slowly. Finally, he reached the second door in the hall and, for decency's sake, knocked. Her voice sounded in a low rasp.

He entered without hesitation, taking in the scene subtly. She had the lights on this time and was sitting up in bed, for once, a book in her lap. She was smiling as well. The room was still decorated in her usual elegant light pink and lace, a definite contrast to the outside world. This brought a grin to his face again. He strode to the bed and wrapped his arms around her gently, breathing in her powdery scent.

"Hi, Mom," Graves said quietly.

"Hi, Will," his mother responded, a little more loudly than his whisper. She pushed him back by the shoulders lightly, still grinning. "You look about the same. . . I'm not surprised." Graves' mother coughed, the cough wracking her body violently. Meanwhile, Graverobber shifted his weight uneasily from foot to foot. Somehow, a white face and dyed hair didn't seem like the ideal look to visit his semi-traditional mom. After a while, the cough subsided, leaving Graves' mother with that same caring smile. "How are you?" she asked.

"No. How are _you_?" Graves asked, concernedly. She waved a hand at him, as if to say, 'Pft. Let's not talk about me.' "Mom." She sighed at his prodding.

"The same as I was. The doctor says it's not going to get any better, hon," his mother said. Graves planted himself in the rocking chair next to her bed, his face softening with worry.

"Is he sure . . . ?"

"Of course. He's a doctor, isn't he?"

"They don't know everything," Graverobber replied, pulling the money he had from his pocket. He set the wad of cash, along with a few coins, on the nightstand. "That's for you. It's everything I could come up with."

"No. You need that. Don't you?" Graves shook his head.

"I'll manage. You need it more. . . Doctor fees and all."

Suddenly, his mother started to cough again. This time, the fit lasted longer than before. Graves shot up and rubbed her back, pulling a wrinkled piece of cloth from his pocket and holding it up to her mouth. He held back the gasp of horror as he realized there were specks of red on the cloth. His mother sat back, breathing heavily. Graves handed her the cloth. He sat back in the rocking chair, dread trickling down his spine.

"What can I do?" She laughed in a tone rough with the soreness of her throat. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but a laugh of disbelief. "There has to be another treatment. Something we haven't thought of."

"We've done everything, sweetie." His mother closed the book she had on her lap and set it aside carefully. "It's about time. You know that." Her blue eyes met his, holding only the truth. He knew she was right.

"But. . . what should I do?" Graves asked slowly, unsurely. This was one of the few times in his life he had ever lost confidence in himself. His stomach was dropping every second.

"What you've been doing," was her simple yet obvious answer. Graves shuddered internally. If she had any idea what he did on his own time in order to help her, she'd have had a heart attack already. "Do what you've been doing, make sure you love with your soul and live with your heart." Graverobber smiled in spite of himself. Although his father left when he was extremely young, his mother never gave up on loving with her entire being. She had had a few amazing years with his step father, before he died.

"I'll try, mom," Graverobber responded. He took his mother's pale, bony hand in his own, gently.

"You'll be fine," she replied, with a quiet chuckle. "You always are." He knew she was right. No matter how much Graves ran into trouble, he always seemed to make out perfectly fine. Graves bit his lower lip for a moment then straightened his face out. He smiled at his mom, attempting to cover his fear with a brave face.

"I think this place needs some fixing up," he said. "I can come by and do it, if you want." His mother shook her head.

"I can call someone. Don't worry." Graverobber was about to protest, but stopped himself, biting his tongue. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn't call anyone due to pride. He figured he would simply follow his mom's wishes and let the house fall a little further into ruin. After she passed, Graves decided, he would fix the house to match its previous condition, if not make it even better than it used to be.

He felt a slight dribble of guilt ease from his throat to his stomach, cold in his gut. Graves shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"Uh. . . Mom, I'd better go. I have to work," Graverobber said, voice cracking a bit on the word work. She sighed.

"Okay. I wish you would stay longer one of these days," his mother replied.

"I know. And I will. Just not now. I need to keep up with your bills." He grinned at her jokingly. This made her smile. "That's it. Keep smiling." Graves stood and placed a kiss on his mother's forehead. He pulled back and tucked his hands into his pockets. "I'll see you soon," he told her.

"Why don't you move back in? I miss having you around. You seem so. . . lonely." Did it show in his eyes or something? The tense spot in his neck came back with her observation. How did mothers automatically sense when something was wrong?

"I'm fine, mom. Don't worry," he said, grinning to mask his nervousness. She took the bait, but not without giving Graves a careful once over. She sighed.

"I love you."

"I love you, too." Graves' smile was neatly pasted on as he turned to exit her room. His lips turned down immediately after his back was turned to his mother. He wished he didn't have to lie to her about how he managed to scrape up so much money in such a short time, looking the way he did. Unfortunately, though, that was how this worked.

Guilt continued to weigh heavily on Graves' shoulders as he trudged from the house back to the alley. He knew he would break his mom's heart if she were ever to find out he stayed in a dumpster of all places, or that he sold an extremely addictive drug or, quite frankly, anything about his life at this point in time. For a moment, he stood still outside the entrance of the alley, peering in. It was odd to be on the other side of the fence.

Graverobber kicked a rock into the alley. What he wouldn't give to stay on this side of the stone and mortar purgatory he had imposed upon himself. Little did he know, he would soon be on his way out of Hell.


	4. Realizations

**WARNING: Slightly graphic sex scene about to take place. Ironically I was listening to "Closer to God" while I was writing this. ;)**

Graverobber strode through the alley, hands roving over the nearly empty pouches of Zydrate on his sides. He had the urgent need to get back to the dumpster at this point. The addicts weren't going to get the Z themselves, after all. After the visit with his mother, Graves was slightly disturbed. Ironically, he threw more energy into his work and less into smuggling himself out of his current predicament. He had to admit though – he did derive a bit of pleasure from seeing beautiful women coming to him every night for their dose, the moans of ecstasy mingling with distant smiles and haunted eyes. This was enough to cement him to the profession, besides the extra cash for his mother.

Before Graves could reach the dumpster, however, a shadow moved into his path. The silhouette was short, but stood right in the middle of the walkway. Graverobber stopped immediately and instinctively crossed his arms over his chest. The figure made no attempt to move out of the way.

"Who's there?"

"Graverobber?" Graves took a short, deep breath.

"Who's asking?"

"Trisha."

"Trisha?" Graverobber raised an eyebrow. He'd done it, alright. He had another addict on his hands. Thankfully, about a week had passed between their last meeting and now.

"Don't you remember me?" Her voice was soft and rather quiet; exactly as it was the night they met. Trisha stepped out of the shadows into the flood of lamp light near them. Tonight she was dressed in a black, knee length dress that flowed around the bottom, combat boots, and her butterfly necklace. Her hair was up in a knot, secured with two dark red chopsticks which matched her lipstick. Her eyes were masked with layers of dark shadow and liner. In spite of this, she was still beautiful to him. Graves smiled in spite of himself.

"Yes, I do." He walked towards her slowly. "Back for more?" he inquired cautiously.

"Yes and no," she replied. "I'm here for something else as well." Trisha took a few steps toward him. Her scent carried to him in the slight breeze. She smelled like a mix of earth and something spicy, like cinnamon. Graves wanted her closer. He eased a hand into the harness around his leg and pulled a vial of Zydrate free. The liquid glowed brightly in the light of the street lamp.

Graves looked down at Trisha, his eyes fixed directly on her bright blue orbs. As she stared at the vial in his hand, Graves noted her expression. She was afraid – afraid, yet simultaneously hungry. With enough time, that hunger would turn to desperation, and desperation would eventually morph into the death of the soul. She would be so numb her face, her body, her entire being would be lifeless, if only for the orgasmic rush she would experience on Zydrate. Eventually it would be her whole life.

He stepped back once, lowering the vial. Trisha's sultry, partially opened lips abruptly closed. Her eyes flashed up to him angrily. Graves decided to take a risk and scope out the situation – something he should have done straight from the beginning with her.

"When was your last surgery?"

"I didn't know I needed a background check," Trisha spat. Graves gave her hard a stare. Trisha glared right back at him. Graverobber began to pocket the vial. "I don't have surgery!" she suddenly exclaimed, her eyes aimed directly at his pocket now.

"What?"

"I don't have surgery," Trisha repeated. She glanced at him, then back to his hand. "I just don't enjoy feeling." Graves knew that longing of emptiness all too well.

"Hm." Trisha was eyeing Graves' pants with that same hungry expression again. He knew she wanted the Zydrate, but he secretly began fantasizing she wanted something slightly more beyond his pants range.

"So. Are we doing this or not?"

"Hm? Oh, yes." Graves tucked a bit of his hair behind his ear and busied himself with pulling the vial from his pocket again. He felt his cheeks become heated with embarrassment. Still, he was happy Trisha probably couldn't see his expression. She was in the light after all, and he wasn't. Graves made sure his face was stoic before emerging into the light again to hand Trisha the vial.

Trisha's face brightened. She handed him a wad of dirty, crushed bills, quickly snatching the vial from him. She pocketed it swiftly.

"So what else did you come here for?" Trisha's red lips slowly turned upward into a rather seductive yet somewhat innocent smile. This was different from the past couple of times she had come to see him. She was hardly the nervous novice she had been the first time she had visited him. Trisha inched toward him, stepping exceptionally close to him. She was mere inches away from his face.

"There's this guy. . . He's very tall. Very manly. . . Has some chest hair, brown eyes, multicolored hair, strong jaw, and an extremely sexy voice. Would you know him?" She continued to smile in that alluring fashion.

"I know a man who's rather sneaky and conniving at times, has a questionable career, and problems with women. Would you be talking about him?" Trisha shook her head slowly.

"No, no. He's eloquent and asks way too many questions but still has an appearance of caring."

"Maybe he doesn't?"

"Ah, that's complete bullshit. I think he does. He just doesn't want to admit it." Trisha was so close now that her essence overwhelmingly filled his nostrils. She walked her fingers sensually up his chest, from the opening in his shirt almost to the top of his collar bone. Graves felt a shudder pass through his body at her touch. He found himself wanting to lift her fingers to his lips and run his tongue over the tips.

"Hm. I think you might be right."

'Unfortunately,' he added to himself.

"I knew I was," she replied, rather confidently. Graverobber wondered to himself what had happened to turn this scared little mouse into a siren overnight. Suspiciously, he crossed his arms so as to cover the Zydrate vials under his coat. Trisha grinned at his movement. "I was wondering if he would want to go out some time when he isn't completely absorbed in producing and distributing drugs. . ." She lowered her hand, which was still pointed against his chest.

"Possibly. My customers need me."

"Mmm. Fair enough. What if I come down here?"

"That's fine. Just. . no disturbing my deals. Got it?" Trisha nodded curtly. Her hair covered part of her face now. Graves firmly planted his hands in his pockets. Trisha was smiling a little more naturally now. The grin hardly reached her eyes, but it was definitely less seductive and more playful.

"Well. I have some drugs to do. I'll see you later." She winked, turned, and began to walk away. Graves watched her go, eyes lingering on her hips. He turned his eyes to the ground as Trisha looked over her shoulder. "In case you're wondering – I know how to get what I want." She held up two vials of Zydrate in one hand, laughing, and continued walking.

'God. I'm such a pervert,' he thought, not even annoyed with the stolen product. 'She's hardly even legal. . .' He shook his head, abruptly shifting his eyes to the nearest brick wall. Graves thought this would make him feel like less of a cradle robber. It didn't. He groaned and stuffed his hands back into his pockets.

"Something the matter?" Graves turned, only to be facing the current owner of GeneCo – Amber. He nearly moaned again, only this time the sound would have been one of extreme disgust, not a slight longing.

"Now there is," he replied tensely.

"Aw, poor Graverobber," Amber said softly. "Do you want the cute little broken girl that just walked off?"

"Awfully large words for someone like you, Amber," said Graves.

"I am smarter than I look, dear. You might remember that." Amber's voice was a slight pout mixed with a bit of a hiss. Graverobber cocked an eyebrow at Amber. Although he wasn't surprised by her audacity, he still did not appreciate being talked to as though he were some subordinate who was lower than the dirt under her feet.

"What do you want?" he shot back.

"I'm a little restless, baby," Amber cooed, her demeanor immediately switching from cold hard bitch to seductress in barely a second. She was an actress – however horrible – so it wasn't surprising. She was also extremely manipulative, being the spoiled daughter of Rotti Largo.

"Good for you. I'll see you later." Graves turned on his heel to walk off. He felt a hand grasp his shoulder tightly . . . much more tightly than it should have been able to. His eyes widened at Amber's stubbornness. "Get. Off." Amber's hand slipped from Graves' shoulder quickly.

"You really like her, don't you?"

"No. I just don't want you." Graverobber gritted his teeth and began to stride toward his trash can again, leaving Amber completely speechless for once. He smiled satisfactorily once he arrived at the dumpster.

He woke the next morning to the usual sound of traffic and commotion outside. Luckily, there was nothing right outside his dumpster to shock him awake; not that disturbances outdoors usually did. Graves stretched, pushing up the lid of the dumpster as he went. No one was around this afternoon. Great.

He sighed and ran a hand through his slightly matted multicolored hair. At this point it was becoming too greasy for its own good. Graves rummaged through the bottom of the trash bin for a moment, producing a rugged towel and very thin bar of harsh soap after a few moments. Quickly, he shoved these into a small brown leather knapsack and shouldered it. He usually used this bag for excess amounts of Zydrate, but that was out of the question for now. He would have enough of a time attempting to make his way to the shelter without being harassed.

Graves closed the dumpster lid and in his stealthy way walked out of the alley. He kept his head down as he went. The smell of the city was pungent today – trash, unwashed sweat, fumes from cars and industrial waste. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at it all. Granted, this industrialized nation gave him a job, in a way, but that didn't make the facts of life – a dirt covered place to call home – any easier.

Within minutes, Graves had cut his way through the streets to reach his destination. The building was quite dilapidated. The sign reading "Sanitarium Shelter" was extremely faded, the bright green lettering barely visible on the grey background. The walls were a noxious grey mixed with whatever stains were on the bricks – everything from red (blood?), yellow (that was obvious), to green and even brown. Graves eyed the wrought iron gate for a moment before pushing his way through and climbing the steps of the sanctuary. The doors were open. He let himself in with a creak.

He stood in a rather cheery lobby. The walls were a faded but inviting blue, ironically bordered in silver. There was a table with flowers in the middle of the room before a chipped brown desk. He didn't even bother signing in at the clipboard on the desk, which was the typical procedure. They knew him here well enough. Graves simply ducked past the desk, past a couple of doors, and around a corner to the first door on the right. He entered the communal shower easily.

There were 10 stalls, each with their own (thankfully) personal shower. Apparently they were all empty at this time of day. He was alone. Graves stepped into the nearest stall and closed the door behind him. With a sigh he took to the task of undressing. He barely remembered to nudge his bag out from under the door so it wouldn't become soaked after grabbing his towel and soap. The stall filled with steam that poured over the door after a few minutes. Graves turned and let the water cascade over his body, warming his skin nicely. He closed his eyes, kneading his scalp with his fingers.

A girl's blue eyes floated into his brain as he worked soap over his flesh. The chemical smell went away while cinnamon filled his nostrils. Graves bit his lip, hands massaging the soap more quickly. His hands slid down over his stomach almost fluidly. Without any hesitation they slipped lower. Unsurprisingly he was already rock hard. In his mind's eye he could see Trisha's red lips parted like they were last night, open to receiving him. Her gorgeous eyes gazed at him longingly, lustfully.

Graves' hands ran over his member, up and down, sometimes around the tip. He held himself up against the wall with one hand, the water pouring down on and over him. The heat of the shower only increased his body temperature along with his lustful thoughts. He groaned as his hand glided over the tip of his tingling cock. The heat stung his eyes as droplets fell into his vision. All too soon, he threw his head back, biting his lip once again to hold back the even louder groan that threatened to escape him. Graves panted, bracing himself against the wall with both hands, limp now. Damn it, Amber was right. He was attracted to her, and now he couldn't even deny the fact.

Some time passed before he managed to clear his muddled brain enough to get back to showering. Eventually, though, he finished, and headed back to his dumpster, clean and seemingly well kept.

Graverobber felt mostly generous on his way back to the bin. He stopped a few times in different corners of the town to make various sales. He even gave himself a rare break to sit at a small café with rather dim lighting to enjoy a cup of very strong black coffee. One fact was quite obvious to him at this point. He couldn't wait to see the girl with the eyes like Zydrate again. Graves poured a bit of sugar into his coffee. He drank it slowly to savor the semi-sweet yet simultaneously bitter taste on his tongue. He wondered to himself what Tricia's mouth would taste like as he watched others in the café.

There were a few couples sitting around at the mahogany wood tables. This place was likely too dark to house any more than just a few. It wasn't particularly romantic. Everyone else was single, reading newspapers, drinking cups of coffee or alcohol. Some were observing the screen on the wall above Graves', which was more than likely spouting some brand-spanking-new GeneCo  
propaganda. One of the perks of not having a T.V. was that he wasn't overexposed to GeneCo's bullshit. He was grateful for that at least.

After finishing his coffee, Graves continued his walk back to the dumpster. He stored the Zydrate holster in the bottom of the bin, then closed the lid and hopped up on it. His bag and jacket lay next to him as he settled down to continue reading the book he had left neglected. It was about time he did something for himself.


End file.
